Plain Girl
by dalekchung
Summary: No one really notices a plain girl like Heather Hansen, which makes it easy to see things she isn't meant to see or to overhear things that aren't for her ears. But maybe this time she should quit on figuring out this particular mystery before she discovers something dangerous and most likely deadly. One-shot.


**A/N:** Unedited due to drowsiness... and impatience lol

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Plain Girl

Heather wasn't the kind of girl that people liked to hang out around. It wasn't that she was involved in anything less than savory. It was the fact that she was simply dubbed the 'plain girl'. She was barely involved in anything at Brookland Comprehensive unless painting signs for the theater's set crew counted. Even then, she was hardly included in anything, which was only slightly upsetting to her considering how tight-knit the set crew was. She didn't like talking to people. She didn't like doing anything involving people. She didn't seem to have any interests—according to everyone else, at least—or, in fact, any presence at all. No one really noticed her unless she was forced to speak in class, which only ever happened in Spanish class, and thus, no one really cared or noticed if she was close by while speaking of something private. Now _that_ was something useful, and she liked the fact that when she walked down the hallways, she could see the little twitches in Sammy Clark's hand that gave away the fact that she absolutely loathed Gabriella Hurst, who was supposedly her best friend.

She didn't need to know anything about her classmates, but it gave her good practice for the _real_ world. Once, she'd overheard her Aunt Maggie's boss speaking about how he needed to cut a good fraction of his employees (a complete coincidence when she was still participating in 'take your kid to work day' and her father was out of town), and she'd collected enough information about his family to guide her aunt through what topics she should talk about and steer clear from. Her boss had gotten so close to her nowadays that he went over to her aunt's for a family dinner once in a while, _and_ her aunt got to keep her job. Subtleties would always be Heather's best friend (especially since that position was decidedly vacant).

That was precisely how she got drawn into this huge mess. But, what did she expect? Anything involving Alex Rider was bound to be as complicated as the meaning of human existence. (She thought about that quite often too).

It was the beginning of the summer holiday when she discovered the first incriminating piece of evidence against Rider. His absences throughout the year, of course, were extremely suspicious, but it wasn't evidence that there was something dangerous that Rider was mixed up in.

Coincidentally, the two of them lived in the same neighborhood. They had even "played" together (she was rather unresponsive to anything besides puzzles as a kid) at the playground just around the corner. That meant that it wasn't strange for her to be taking a stroll around the area. Though she hadn't been actively seeking anyone out on her walk, she learned that random bits of knowledge still fell into her possession. She was just the kind of person to notice things—small details. However, her relaxing walk wasn't anything close to the mindless amble she had hoped.

Almost immediately after stepping out of her house, she saw them: four _hulking_ men, running toward her at top speed like they were a particularly odd-shaped battering ram. They ran in a sort of formation, surrounding something that she couldn't quite see. As they neared, however, she was able to make out a smaller shape, nearly sandwiched between the men. It must have been incredibly awkward, since the person barely had any room to move, but they were somehow moving seamlessly, like they'd done this many times before without any problems. As the formation moved nearer, Heather recognized the flash of blond hair between the men. It was Rider. She automatically moved out of the way when the five men came uncomfortably close to her, and she watched as they kept plowing forward, their feet slamming into the pavement in perfect synchrony with each other.

Heather pretended not to notice the suspicious glare that one of the men in the front threw her, like he was trying to warn her off, but she wasn't someone that scared easily. She continued on her path, her ears straining to hear anything over the pounding of their shoes.

"Classmate of yours?" the same man that had glared at her asked Rider, his voice growing fainter and fainter as they ran further away from her. "Should've beat some sense into her…"

She was too far away to hear Rider's response, but she had heard enough. Obviously, the man was very close to Rider, and judging by his words, he knew about how her classmates treated the teen. Her thoughts inevitably strayed to the rumors she'd overheard (disregarding all the entirely ridiculous ones first), trying to match up what she'd just seen to each possibility. Heather shook her head resolutely. She shouldn't try to draw conclusions without the proper facts.

Though she was itching to find out more information about the relationship between Rider and the four men, she knew she had to be patient. Marching up to his house and demanding answers was a sure way of _not_ getting them.

She checked her watch. It was nearly seven AM, and if she was correct, that meant they usually passed by her house by seven. Humans were creatures of habit and changing habits was a very hard thing to do.

Heather stepped out of her house at precisely 6:57 AM the next day, bringing out her phone as if she was bored by the prospect of a walk, but angling it in a way that made it easy to look out for any hulking men on the run. She let her arm drop after a moment, disappointed at the lack of interesting events. No Rider. No mysterious men. Perhaps they weren't creatures of habit after all. That wouldn't surprise her in the least bit, considering how Rider acted during school. It was like he was always looking over his shoulder—very subtly at that—and on high alert. Heather had first suspected that he was being abused, but careful scouting had led to her realization that Rider's previous guardians were dead, and he was living alone. Then, her mind had led her to the possibility that he had killed both his guardians, but that was also a silly idea. The number of times that she'd caught a glimpse of Rider at Brompton Cemetery told her enough about his relationship with his guardians. She noticed _him_ plenty of times _,_ but she wasn't sure if he'd noticed _her._

The thought prompted a frown on her face. It had been a week since she'd visited her mother, and now was a good time as any. Her father was off on a business trip to who-knows-where, leaving Heather to herself for the next two weeks. She was used to these business trips all throughout the year, but a nagging voice inside her head kept asking her _why_ a banker had to travel so often and for so long. Her dad could be a workaholic, sure, but a month-long business trip? He needed to get new excuses for leaving so often because that just screamed 'red flag'.

She decided take the long way to the cemetery, which meant cutting past Rider's house. She wasn't exactly done giving up her quest yet, no matter how inconvenient Rider was making it. Pocketing her phone, she set off at a brisk pace, only slowing down when she heard a slightly muffled, but extremely furious roar of frustration. She couldn't make out any words, nor could she tell which house it had come from, but by the way a half-naked man covered in shaving cream stormed out of Rider's house, it was a safe bet to say he was involved.

"I'm going to _kill_ that little snake when I get my hands on him!" the man snarled, not bothering to wipe the shaving cream off of his face. "Where the hell is he?"

Another man appeared in the doorway as Heather passed by. She didn't bother to hide her curious expression, but turned away politely at the embarrassed expression the second man shot her. In a soft, accented voice, he called back the first man, saying something about 'scaring off the neighbors', which was an accurate assessment.

Heather pondered over the strange interaction as she walked the rest of the way to the cemetery, only stopping to buy a single sunflower—her mother's favorite. The dynamic between the men she'd seen and Rider were like one of a family's. A really messed up one, full of bickering siblings, but a family nonetheless. She was almost inclined to feel envy until she reminded herself, shame welling up in her, that Rider had suffered enough in the past years, and no matter what, everyone deserved a family.

The cemetery was as quiet as ever when she entered. The only noise she could hear was the chirping of a bird in the distance, which only added to the eerie atmosphere. Having been there often and at random times of the day, Heather had battled off her fear of being attacked and killed by a brain-eating zombie. She snorted softly at herself and her overactive imagination as she picked her way through the weaving path, through the maze of headstones.

It was easy, finding her mother's headstone. She visited often, and even though her father said it was an 'unhealthy dependence', she only went so often to make up for _him._ He never visited, and Heather couldn't fault him. He had been the one driving that day. Heather couldn't blame her father for her death either. They had gone on a business trip together, and he couldn't have known that a drunk driver would slam into them…

Heather didn't need to say anything to her mother. She just placed the sunflower on the headstone, sadness curling in the tips of her fingers where she placed them on the cold stone. There wasn't really any point in talking out loud, she had told herself hundreds of times when she visited. Her mother wasn't really _here_ of course. Though it was a corny thought, the idea that her mother lived on inside of her was one that she agreed with. Still, she spent another half an hour there, reliving memories of childhood innocence. She had to clench her jaw to keep the tears from welling up in her eyes, but despite her best efforts, a few of them slipped down onto her cheeks and into the grass in front of her. She wiped them off of her face angrily, turning to leave.

She halted a moment after she registered four familiar men storming up the walkway. They were angry, she could tell, but that wasn't an excuse to shake the very earth beneath their feet. It was if they wanted to wake the dead. For a brief second, she thought one of the men had stomped incorrectly and broken a bone after one in the back brought his foot down as she heard a soft 'pop', but the brown-haired man didn't even flinch. Odd.

Heather retreated a few steps, intent on walking back home after they'd passed, but the group paused in front of her row.

"Erm, excuse me," the same accented voice that Heather had heard in the morning politely called out to her. "Do you know, by any chance, where the Riders' gravestones are?"

Heather studied them. Either they were very good at poker faces, or the four didn't recognize her from the two brief encounters. She bet it was the latter, since she did have a great record of being invisible. Though she liked her place inside her metaphorical invisibility cloak, she couldn't pass up this opportunity. A moment to figure out an enigma like Rider? She would take it.

"Why do you want to know?" she asked, lacing her voice with suspicion. The answer was obvious in itself, but maybe—she could see that the men were antsy and eager with anticipation—she could catch them off guard. Any little thing helped her piece together the puzzle, including the fact that they were anxious. If they were friends with Rider, why would they be so worried? As far as she was concerned, Rider was a free man and could visit his dead family whenever he wanted to. Then again, it could have something to do with the interesting scene she stumbled upon a mere hour ago. The shouty-man looked better without white shaving cream plastered to his face.

"We're looking for Alex Rider," the man offered immediately. Not a lie, then. "He left us a note early this morning, and he hasn't been back yet. We're just a little concerned."

 _About what?_ She nearly asked. Deciding against it, she nodded, "Follow me." At this point, she would have given directions and shut up, but she didn't do either. Instead, she kept up a 'friendly' chatter, which might have been a little bit like she was prying, "It's really sad that his parents and uncle died so early. I doubt that Alex remembers, but I came to Mr. Rider's—er, Ian Rider—funeral. He and my parents were coworkers at the Royal and General Bank."

The party tensed dramatically, as if she'd said something horribly wrong. Her brain narrowed on their reactions, filing it away for later use.

"Did your parents…?" the same redheaded man gestured at a random headstone they passed.

Heather shook her head, "Only my mum. Drunk driver."

The redhead nodded slowly, and out of her peripheral vision, she saw him give a significant look at the shaving-cream-guy, who's face contorted with realization before settling back into his poker face. Heather didn't understand the significance of her words unless they knew something about that day, which was very unlikely. Perhaps one of the men had suffered a similar tragedy.

"Did they ever find out who the drunk driver was?" the same man asked, his tone suddenly testy.

Heather got the feeling that instead of _her_ doing the interrogating, _he_ was grilling her. She gave a halfhearted shrug, but was saved from answering by the appearance of the one and only Alex Rider. He was doubled over like he had a serious stitch in his side and was using the tops of the headstones as a crutch.

"Cub?"

Heather stepped back as the men rushed forward, attention focusing solely on the gasping teenager. She couldn't tell what was wrong with him—only that he was extremely pale and one hand was clutching a spot on his patterned red shirt. She froze, her mind going blank as she realized that the shirt was clinging to his body unnaturally, almost as if the red part was wet. Another beat, and she recognized that his shirt wasn't supposed to be red at all. It was blood.

"Call 999," she called out robotically, searching her pockets for her cell phone.

"No!" Rider snapped immediately. He turned his hard, brown eyes on the shaving-cream-guy, "We have to get back to my house. He's headed there to take the… _you-know-what!"_

The men tensed, their faces turning steely. That was _not_ how normal people acted, Heather wanted to shout at them. She was pretty sure that whoever 'he' was could wait until after Rider got medical attention.

Without ceremony, the shaving-cream-guy scooped Rider into his arms, turned around and began running at top speed, ignoring the way Rider winced and the blood that began seeping into his shirt. The other men followed without any hesitation, leaving Heather behind, stunned.

"You could leave him here and let him get medical attention while you deal with this!" Heather shouted at their retreating figures, but they didn't break stride. She cursed under her breath. She did _not_ devote this much time and energy into figuring Rider out just for him to die before she made a big discovery. She bolted after the group. Maybe she could talk sense into them as they ran. She knew first-aid well, at the insistence of her father. She could treat him without a problem while calling a damn ambulance.

She kept pace with the men, her adrenaline fueling her every step. The scene raced by as fast as her thoughts, and by the time they reached her neighborhood, she was ready to drag shaving-cream-guy and Rider into her house for immediate medical treatment. She all but yelled the command at them, which was probably why he followed without second thought as the other three continued to run at top speed.

"Call 999," Heather snapped at the man, running to snatch the family first aid kit from the kitchen, which was the closest one within reach. Her father insisted that they have one first aid kit per every two rooms, which was absolutely ridiculous and unnecessary, but she was glad that there were so many within reach. She didn't have to waste time running around for one specific first aid kit.

She was back at Rider's side in an instant, cutting his shirt down the middle with her pocket knife. ("For self-defense!" her father had proclaimed). She knew she should have gaped at the number of white and pink scars littering the teen's chest, but her eyes were drawn to the perfectly circular hole in his side.

"Gunshot wound," she muttered. "How long?"

Rider was surprisingly coherent for someone who was losing too much blood, "A few minutes before you came. He used a silencer."

Heather inhaled sharply, realizing that the 'pop' she'd heard wasn't from the men's heavy footsteps.

"Ambulance called," the remaining man dropped to his knees beside Rider.

"Focus on getting an answer out of him," Heather said, her hands grasping at gauze. She had to get the bleeding to stop. "I can't tell what kind of internal damage the bullet could have caused, and he's going into shock from the blood loss."

The whole house shuttered from an unknown force, accompanied by a _'BOOM'._ Heather's ears rang, but she didn't let up on the pressure to Rider's wound. If he lost any more blood, he would die.

"My men," the man ran out of the house without another word, his voice tight with sorrow.

Heather cursed internally. Rider had fallen silent after his initial proclamation—a very, very bad thing.

"Alex, talk to me," she called out, a little louder than necessary. Her ears were still ringing, and she could bet Rider's was too. Daring to lift one hand from his wound, she wiped the dripping blood away and placed a finger to his nose, checking for a breath. It was weak, but it was still there. His heart rate was slower, she realized, drawing her fingers back from his neck. Panic was starting to rise in her chest. "Tell me about your uncle, Ian."

Rider's eyes were unfocused, but he murmured some words about how his uncle thought he sounded too old when Rider called him Uncle Ian. He was definitely in shock now, Heather realized. She had to replace the pressure on his wound with something else so if she had to commence CPR, she could. With no one able to hold down his wound, she was screwed. She had to find a way to bandage him.

Heather rifled through the first aid kit with her free hand, blood smearing everywhere except for the clean gauze—she was careful with that. Her eyes latched onto a familiar package, one that she had been one hundred percent sure she would never use until that very moment. She wasn't sure why her father had packaged an Israeli bandage in their first aid kits as the chance of being shot or placed in any other life threatening position such as combat (which it was designed for) was highly unlikely, but she didn't it now. With practiced hands from years of her father drilling it into her, she applied it, then moved up to check Rider's breathing again. It was definitely getting weaker.

"Alex? Tell me more about your uncle. What was he like? What did he like to do?" Heather felt his pulse point again. She could hear sirens in the distance, getting closer and closer, and she knew that only a few moments separated Rider from life and death. They would get here to save him, she was positively sure. "Alex!"

Alex's eyelids were drooping, but at her sharp tone, they flew open again, albeit still unfocused.

"Tell me more about your uncle," Heather said again, barely able to keep the pleading note out of her voice.

"Um…" Rider hummed, "Patriotic."

 _That_ was an odd thing to say. It must be because of the shock, but even if Rider did spew some nonsense, that was better than him not speaking at all.

The sirens were close, if not directly outside her house. She heard yelling, and the rolling of a gurney. They were here.

Heather stepped back numbly as the paramedics arrived. "I tried to stop the bleeding," she offered, a cold feeling drifting throughout her whole body, starting with her bloodstained fingertips. "He's in shock, heart rate and BP dropping."

The paramedics nodded with affirmation before wheeling him out at top speed. Heather watched as the ambulance sped away, past the house that was currently smoldering and charred beyond recognition. The roof had been blown apart, and the surrounding houses were sprinkled with anything from bits of dust to giant wooden planks and loose tiles. She didn't require an explanation for a _bomb_ planted in the Rider house, nor did she want one.

Heather sat down heavily on her front steps, shuddering. Maybe it hadn't been a good idea to investigate the likes of Alex Rider.

PLAIN*GIRL

She didn't want to move from her spot on the middle of her couch the next day. After a sleepless night where she showered at least five times to get rid of the feeling of blood on her and a good two hours researching a way to get bloodstains out of her carpet, she didn't want to receive any visitors, but given her luck, she did.

A woman, nondescript in every way—from the unassuming gray dress suit she wore to the plainness in her features—greeted her with a simple nod and a, "Miss Hansen?" Heather had the feeling that the woman was similar to herself. She would blend in spectacularly with a crowd, but out here, she stood out like a sore thumb with her tailored dress suit.

A man stood behind her, just as plain as the woman, but it was clear from the way he stood that he was there to protect the woman from any threat including, Heather realized, her.

"My name is Mrs. Jones. May we come in?" the woman had a pleasant voice—practiced by the looks of it. Her facial features didn't match the pleasant aura she was trying to portray.

Heather nodded, stepping aside to let them through. She led them to the kitchen, trying to steer them away from the blood stain in the carpet, but the woman noticed it anyway. She smiled as if it were something more agreeable and said, "We can get that fixed for you. Free of charge."

If she were politer, Heather would have thanked Mrs. Jones, but her limbs felt like she was weighed down with lead and her eyes were threatening to close every other second.

"How can I help you?" she asked, tone dull. Her eyes followed the other man, who was circling within the vicinity, his phone out. Something told her that he wasn't texting a girlfriend.

"Right down to business, then," Mrs. Jones said approvingly. "Just like your parents."

"My parents?" Heather asked sharply, perking up at the mention.

The woman sat delicately on one of the stools, "Yes. Now, Miss Hansen, I'm going to have to explain a few things to you, starting with why Mr. Rider was attacked yesterday, but I will need a few assurances from you that you will _not,_ under any circumstances, reveal anything I am about to say. If you do plan to reveal anything…well, let's just say there are ways of making you silent before you are able to breathe a word to anyone else. Including your father."

Heather peered at her, wary, "What about my father?"

Mrs. Jones leaned forward slightly, and Heather got a good whiff of nauseating peppermint. She dismissed the question, "We could really use someone like you, Miss Hansen. We've been watching you for a while. You're talented, intelligent, subtle. A perfect combination for the job we're offering."

Heather was losing her patience, an unfortunate side effect to her sleep deprivation. "Who is this 'we' you keep on alluding to?" she snapped.

Mrs. Jones gave her a pointed look, plucking a sheaf of paper and a pen out of her small, gray purse. Heather leaned forward, reading the paper. It was a contract, she realized. She read the paper in its entirety, looking for any way that she could be exploited. Her father was a smart man that had taught her to be a smart girl. Signing a contract without reading it would be like selling a diamond ring for five pounds.

"Fine," Heather said in the same dull tone, signing her name on the dotted line at the bottom of the page. "I agree to your terms."

Mrs. Jones smiled, which was a bit creepy in Heather's opinion. Maybe she had been too hasty, as she had been with Rider's case.

The plain woman took back the contract and the pen, looking almost _fondly_ at the plain girl standing in front of her.

"We are MI6, Miss Hansen," the woman lifted her chin at her words, the smallest hint of pride seeping into her words. "And I believe we'll accomplish many great things together."

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 **A/N:** Hello! I'm back for this one-shot! I gotta say, I really like writing in other character POVs especially OC POVs. Sorry about the unedited mess. I'm just really tired, but I also wanted to share this with you. Okay, have a lovely day, hugs, kisses, lots of love mwah mwah bye


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